


Act III

by overthejune



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Band Fic, Banter, Enemies to Lovers, Fluff and Angst, Football | Soccer, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, Internal Conflict, Jock Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Alternating, Past Relationship(s), Pining, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Theater Nerd George, Trust Issues, University of Minnesota Golden Gophers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-18 19:53:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29374161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/overthejune/pseuds/overthejune
Summary: He leaned down and smiled sensually. "Your name would be nice."The brunette seemed to consider this for a moment, then leaned forward until their faces were inches apart; a direct challenge. Clay could feel the boy's breath softly ghosting onto his face."George Davidson."Clay's smile grew as he tallied himself a point. "Well, my name is Clay Dream. It's very nice to meet you, George."George stared straight into his eyes, a light going off in them that signaled his intense disapproval of Clay's condescending tone. The boy leaned back in his seat but didn't relax. After a single moment, the dark eyes discarded him."Wish I could say the same."--Everyone loves Clay...everyone, that is, except for the sarcastic, edgy guy in the third row of Clay's English Language class.Clay has always enjoyed a challenge, but he never thought that it would be so hard to get someone to notice him.George has always enjoyed staying away from people like Clay, but he never thought that it would be so hard to ignore him. It will be quite a battle of the wills (or pills), and it will change their lives forever.
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 320
Kudos: 1049





	1. Modest and Exasperated

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going to be totally honest: I don't know shit about American Universities.  
> I have a friend in the University of Minnesota and so the campus, classes, locations, and the Soccer Team are all based upon what I've seen in pictures, FaceTime, the internet, and a bit of Hollywood.
> 
> Now that we've cleared that up. I have spent WEEKS plannings this fic. This may be the longest, most effortful piece of writing I have done in a while. I can only hope this one does just as well as the other fic :') 
> 
> I'm excited and hope you enjoy! <3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dream wins the game but not everybody's heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Introductory Chapter. They'll interact in the next one.
> 
> This story is set a little in the past (because I forgot texting and Instagram existed until it was too late lol)

_"Clay Dream is taking it in; the goalie is moving out to meet him; he takes the shot…score! 3-2 Minnesota!"_

The announcer's voice pierced the roar of the crowd and Clay Dream pumped his tendon-laced arms in triumph as his maroon-and-gold-clad teammates streaked towards him. The whistle blew, the game was over. Clay felt a lurch in his stomach as he was hoisted up onto the shoulders of his team, but he didn't let the uncomfortable feeling strain his thousand-watt soccer-star grin. He never did.

The star looked up at the grandstands, the blinding lights reflecting on the torn-up watery mud of the soccer field. Eight thousand fans screamed his name and he pointed at a particularly vocal section, then the next as they reacted favorably to his recognition of them.

"Damn it, man," huffed Jack Manifold from somewhere below him and to his right, "You could give those fans the bird right now and they'd still love you."

Clay smirked to himself at the thought as he gathered his gear on the sidelines. The other team had long since vacated the premises in favor of their bus, and the fans were filing out slowly, though some were still looking back for glimpses of their hero. The first strains of Hail! Minnesota – courtesy of the ever-present pep band – echoed throughout the bleachers, and a few more sentimental members of the team hummed along as they packed up. Clay shouldered his team jacket and turned to begin his trek back to the team locker room, waving to the stands as he went.

"Clay!" He turned, dirty blonde curls dripping and hanging in his face, and Coach Taggart was indicating a camera a meter in front of his heavy-jowled face. "ESPN!"

The poised sports reporter smiled serenely for the camera; her gaffer was less polite, sending an impatient look his way. Clay smiled brilliantly. This was his favorite part; getting on the television after a successful game… and ever since he'd joined the maroon and gold, they'd had nothing but success. He was the best college soccer player that Minnesota had ever had, and he knew it. Clay started towards the cameraman and his coach.

* * *

George Davidson winced as his trombone made contact with another blue bleacher chair. He lifted the horn to inspect the damage as the members of his pep band negotiated their way out of the stadium and noted yet another little blue ding in the soft rose gold. He closed his eyes and wished that he was already back in his single room, doing something useful. It wasn't that soccer matches were ever boring; it was just that it had been such a long week.

Karl Jacobs poked him in the back and gestured to the Trom, a large live-feed screen employed to show the players in action for those fans who couldn't see well enough from their seats. A handsome, jade-eyed young man flashed a dazzling smile at the camera as the sports reporter asked him to describe how he had felt right before he had scored the winning goal.

"Just great, really great, you know?" Clay's amplified voice rang out over the remnants of the crowd, which stopped moving for a moment to watch the interview, much to George's chagrin. "I was looking at the positions of the defenders and I thought, if I could just get the ball, I could maybe get between two of them and have a shot at it. Will passed it to me, and the rest is history," he finished modestly.

Karl snorted and George turned back to the stairs.

"Modest Dream is at it again," Karl grumbled, lifting his horn over the head of a small boy whose Dream jersey nearly drowned his diminutive frame. The boy looked after them, big blue eyes reproachful, as if he realized that they were mocking his hero.

The worst thing about Clay Dream, George thought to himself as he stepped gingerly down the narrow concrete stairs, was not that he was such a pretty-boy, though that was sort of irksome. It wasn't that he thought he was the biggest kid in the candy store, though that was also annoying. It wasn't that he was talented, or that he was famous, or that everything good gravitated toward him. It was that he was, plainly stated, a real ass. No matter what the kid did, he always came across that way, and George couldn't stand people like that, especially when they didn't care that they were perceived in such a manner.

The trash-littered concessions area was also wired to the Trom, and fans covered their ears as ESPN continued coverage at a volume louder than necessary. Dream's voice droned on and on, and George pulled at his maroon-and-gold striped pep band polo in mounting exasperation as he placed his trombone carefully into its case. The blue paint from the chair was even more evident in this lighting, and he sighed as he latched the case closed.

The brunette wrinkled his nose in exasperation as he left the uniform room of the stadium. The crowd was bottled up at the entrance; it would take forever to get out. He joined the queue and looked up at a suspended television. Modest Dream was still on; the television showed him signing autographs with a small smirk etched into his strong jawline.  
Sensing the camera was still on him, Dream reenacted one of his earlier goals, much to the delight of the admirers in his wake.

George tried not to roll his eyes, picked up his trombone case with newfound determination, and wormed his way through the crowd to a less popular staff exit. The security guard at the door noted his band polo and stepped to the side. As Dream's voice tracked and followed him out the doors, George wondered if there was anything more degrading – or annoying – than being forced by the Athletics Department to play for the soccer star. After a moment's speculation, he knew there was.

The most annoying Dream-related thing in the world would be if he, George, had to take a class with the soccer star. Fortunately, George thought as he stepped out into the blistering wind, that particular scenario wasn't likely to occur any time soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yah.  
> Following chapters will be longer, I promise :3
> 
> Leave a comment!  
> Criticism and suggestions are always welcome
> 
> [tumblr](https://khusharma.tumblr.com)  
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/OverTheJune)


	2. The English Class

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George's luck is not in his favor and Clay is intrigued by the edgy, sharp-tongued boy in his class

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lol okay so this chapter was not supposed to be out by at least Monday, but I completed it and I love it SO much.  
> I hope y'all like it as well <3

Nothing, George thought to himself as he pulled out his notebook and labeled it one to twenty, _nothing_ in his life was fair.

The first week of the second semester had been cruel, but today was by far the worst. He'd submitted to marching practice every day from 3:30 to 6:00. He'd taken it in stride when his Introduction to Playwriting professor had decided that each of his students was to not only write a script for a final grade but that the honors credit requirement for his class was a part of one of the Theater Club's popular plays. He'd resigned himself to the massive amounts of homework sprawled out on his desk in his single room back in Comstock Hall. But this… this was beyond bad.

He had chosen a seat right up against the window on the right-hand side of the classroom, halfway across the room from the professor. He'd never really liked getting close to his teachers. He never would. They were the bosses at a job and nothing more to him. He didn't feel the need to come in early and converse with them, as a few students in every class seemed to. He didn't feel the need to make them learn his name, nor his face. Most of the time he wished that they would simply teach and ignore him. The only instructor who had ever transcended this view was Mr. Cavoti, who had introduced him to the world of theater when he had been in high school. And so he picked the most unobtrusive spot in the classroom and waited for class to start.

Idly, George had rubbed at a spot in his black jacket and sat there in silence as the rest of the class introduced themselves to each other. A neutral sort of boy, Jim Brathwaite, had shaken his hand earlier and now sat behind him. They had both looked up in surprise as the door to the thirty-person classroom had opened with a loud bang, and a loud chatter filled the air. George had to clench his jaw to keep it from hitting the top of his desk as the last person he'd ever expected to see in his class entered the room with a flourish.  
 _No way…_

Clay Dream had never wanted to take English Language and Society. His major was Business and Marketing, and felt that this class – fulfilling only one liberal education requirement – was a waste of his time. He'd never liked to read, and never about society. However, he was going to try his best in the situation.  
A few of his friends followed him to the room, though it meant that they'd be late for their classes. This never seemed to bother them, and Clay never told them to get to class.  
What was the point? A giggling raven clung to the heavily decorated arm of his letter jacket and he smirked down at her as he banged the door to the English classroom open loudly.

It was the worst thing that could have happened to cap off the already excruciating week. George dropped his face into his hands, completely stunned by his poor luck.

 _I jinxed it_ , he thought miserably as Clay Dream stepped into the room and the heads of his classmates whipped around to take in the sight of the handsome soccer star – as if they were theater puppets, heads controlled by rope. _At that soccer game last night I thought it would be the worst thing in the world to have him in my class, and Fate took the bait! I tempted Fate!_  
George supposed he had to look up sometime. He took a deep breath and, running his hand through his dark brown hair, he straightened up.

Immediately, he wished he'd stayed in his reclined position. Dream had chosen a desk front and center to the professor's desk, no doubt so that the instructor would see _him_ first as he scanned the room. Dream's fan club was gathered about him, strewn over the desks in a horseshoe shape around the star. Never mind that there were people who were registered for the class currently without seats; where Clay Dream went, his fan club went, and no regular student had enough social clout to demand that they move. Not that they would anyway; everyone would be so star-shocked to even think about finding a seat in this classroom.

Indeed, all of the students who'd had their seats taken by the beautiful boys and girls of the Dream Club didn't seem to mind. They were either completely silent and staring or tittering at the person next to them, seemingly unable to grasp the fact that the soccer star was in their class. Clay Dream was not just a sports headliner at the U of M. He was the King of the campus.

As George watched, a shy brunette with glasses – obviously a wallflower with a sudden burst of courage – wove her way through the desks and up to Dream. Her voice was small.  
"Can I… can I have your autograph?"  
"Sure, pretty lady!" George recognized the tenor voice from the television screens at the soccer game, and he noted that even though Dream's voice was no longer mechanically amplified, it seemed not to have decreased in volume. The girl giggled and blushed as her hero talked her up, signing her maroon t-shirt. She'd never wash that shirt again.  
"So, sweetheart, how'd you like to join us at the Shout House this Friday? It's a real blast: Great booze, sexy chicks, hot bartenders," Dream winked at her.

The girl could only gape at him for a moment, mental fuses completely blown, but quickly covered it up and accepted the invitation. As she made her way back to her seat in front of George, however, she missed the wink that Dream sneaked behind her back to his friends, who snickered.  
Disgusted, George fished in his backpack for his book and buried his nose in it. Jocks were jocks, after all, and the bigger they were, the more invincible they acted. The only way to injure them was to ignore them.

* * *

Clay's day was improving. He'd arrived on time – a rare achievement – and added at least ten people in the classroom to his ever-expanding fan base. He'd signed two autographs and recounted his goal from the night before three times. Clay leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head, feeling satisfied with himself.  
A good friend of his, Alexis Quackity, was still making lovesick faces at the girl whose shirt he'd just signed. The girl didn't notice – she was too busy blushing and looking at her desk. The poor thing would probably never get over it. He laughed at the thought and Alex, thinking it was his face that did the trick, had the good graces to look embarrassed.

Clay pushed up the worn sleeve of his letter jacket to check the gleaming silver Rolex he'd received for his nineteenth birthday. He was twenty minutes early. His friends were busy talking to each other, and so, bored, he looked around the room. He now knew the name of everyone in the classroom. He had quite a memory for names and he used it to his fullest advantage. Lazily his green eyes tracked the rising dust of the room as the sun shot abruptly through a patch of clouds and burst through the window.

A faint growl of annoyance reached his ears. No one else seemed to notice, but that wasn't unusual – Clay's hearing was better than most.  
The soccer star craned his neck in amusement, looking for the source of the sound. A perfectly arched eyebrow lifted as he found it – backlit by a tall window on the right-hand side of the room was a boy, noticeably attractive even from this distance, wearing a black jacket and shielding the side of his face from the blinding rays of light. His book was cradled in a long-fingered hand, eyes closed in a grimace.  
A surge of aggravation overlapped the swooping hormonal feeling in Clay's stomach, and he sighed.

He'd missed someone. How? Even the guy who was now sitting behind Black Jacket had come up to him and quietly introduced himself. Clay glanced at his friends, who were too busy clowning around to notice anything else. He stood up.

* * *

The sun was an invader of the worst kind, and he couldn't seem to get away from its rays, no matter which way he turned. George growled in faint annoyance and lifted his hand to cup his temple, grimacing. It wouldn't be so bad if it hadn't just rained in a freak fall storm. The wet concrete outside was reflecting all of the sun's glory.

  
George twisted to the side and hunched back down, tucking his chin to his chest and peering at the book in his hands. An oblong shadow fell over his desk, perforating his concentration. He ignored it; its owner probably wasn't looking for him anyway, and if they were, they could just –  
"Ahem."  
– get his attention somehow. George gave up on the book and looked up. For the second time already that day, he regretted his curiosity.

Clay Dream stood over him, fashionable, modern, beautiful; knowing full well that he fit all of those descriptions perfectly. His lips were parted in a slightly listing grin, cocky, waiting for his pristine presence to work its effect on what he must have considered the lower social life form below him.

George locked gazes with him deliberately, projecting confidence, wondering what to say. Dream cottoned onto the staring contest, and George laughed to himself. He knew he could win any staring contest. He'd once stared down a goat at the county fair on a dare, and he'd won. The goat hadn't looked happy again until a little girl fed it a carrot. Dream would crack in the same way, and it would be funny to see what he would have to say for himself.

What was it about him that everybody found so damn attractive? Sure, George agreed that Dream's emerald eyes were nice enough, but the rest of him was pretty normal. He was probably a head taller than George himself and was no doubt moderately built, but then again, most guys these days were. His dirty-blonde hair had a strangely unnatural look to it; more blonde on the ends than in the roots; dyed. George hated it when guys dyed their hair, especially when it was a nice color to begin with. White teeth, strong jaw and nose, nothing particularly unusual or exotic. All in all, Clay Dream looked fairly normal.

The boy in question put his hands on either side of George's desk and leaned down, grin deepening, and suddenly, George was annoyed instead of amused. He twitched involuntarily, like a cat about to spring.

  
_"What?"_

* * *

Clay reared back slightly in surprise at the British accent, hands leaving the desk, falling onto his hips. He considered his next move. Rarely was a person unhappy to see him, and it seemed like this boy was, at best, unhappy to see him. He gazed down on the young man in imperious surprise.

  
"What, what?" he returned.

The boy stared at him with incredulity written into every line. Clay had to admit that his initial perception of the boy as attractive had been correct. Though the slightly bowed, thin lips were currently pursed with something resembling annoyance; though the dark brown eyes were currently hardened with something that looked like disdain; though everything about the other guy's attire screamed 'not impressed' from the black jacket to the faded jeans that he could already tell were fitting so well; though Clay Dream was suddenly feeling somewhat smaller than he'd felt in a while, it was a thrilling feeling and he was slowly getting interested in the conversation.

The boy raised his eyebrows and looked at him like he was insane, raising his dark eyebrows for a moment before dropping them again.

"What do you want?" It wasn't a question, really; more of a statement of disinterest; a test to see how far Clay would push this situation when he wasn't automatically winning. The soccer player suddenly envisioned himself on a chessboard. He couldn't back out now, and he didn't want to: By now it seemed that the entire room was listening to the conversation, and Clay was in his element, performing for the crowd.

He leaned down and smiled sensually. "Your name would be nice."

The brunette seemed to consider this for a moment, then leaned forward until their faces were inches apart; a direct challenge. Clay could feel the boy's breath softly ghosting onto his face.

"George Davidson."

Clay's smile grew as he tallied himself a point. "Well, my name is Clay Dream. It's very nice to meet you, George."

'George' stared straight into his eyes, a light going off in them that signaled his intense disapproval of Clay's condescending tone. The boy leaned back in his seat but didn't relax. After a single moment, the dark eyes discarded him.

"Wish I could say the same."

There was sudden and resounding laughter throughout the classroom as Clay reared back for the second time that day, his eyebrows nearly lifting off his face. George gave him one last cold look and returned to his book. Clay recovered himself and made his way back to his friends.

Alex clapped him on the arm and let loose another string of laughter. "Man, you just got _owned_."  
Clay took out his books and lifted his nose into the air, feigning perfect disinterest. "I am _owned by no one_ , Mr. Quackity."

As the professor entered the room and ordered them to number a blank piece of paper one to twenty, however, Clay couldn't help but privately agree.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yah.  
> Next chapter soon :)
> 
> Leave a comment!  
> Criticism and suggestions are always welcome  
> [tumblr](https://khusharma.tumblr.com)  
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/OverTheJune)


	3. Smiles and Stares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clay seems to not get George out of his head and the other boy gets an idea for his play

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, good readers!  
> I know I promised Chapter 3 to be out two days ago, but here's the thing: I have TWO ongoing fics now.  
> Would you believe me if I tell you I posted this fic by ACCIDENT? (why are "save as draft" and "post" buttons right next to each other? smh) I didn't even realize what I'd done until after the fic got 300 Hits. The comments were very kind, and so I didn't want to delete it.  
> But the workload has gotten _so much._ I had to ask my friend to write some parts for me haha. Shelly Jelly, you're the best ;*
> 
> Anyways, enjoy. This took us three hours :')

Clay Dream rolled over in his bed with a frustrated sigh. He was a sound sleeper only when nothing else was on his mind, and tonight his thoughts were as subtle as the university marching band.

Through physics and French he'd ruminate over his failure to befriend the brunette in his English Language lecture, while his friends masked their giggles at his irritation to and from each class. So focused was he on dissecting the morning's events that he hadn't heard Mlle Barclay call on him for a verb chart demonstration; his attention had only been brought back to the present by the yard of metered wood that had snapped sharply over his desk.

Clay made a soft 'hrmph' and punished his pillow with a sharp slap. He couldn't get comfortable; his physical form was mirroring his mental discomfort. He lay there and stared at the mottled white ceiling for two seconds, then reached back and fluffed up the pillow again.

His roommate, Nick, shifted irritably in the lofted bed above him.  
"Dream, I swear if you don't stop moving in the next thirty seconds I'm going to come down there and beat your ass!"

Clay pulled a face at the boards of the Gopher halfback's loft and closed his eyes in frustration. He should be _asleep_ right now. After all, it wasn't like George's coolness really mattered to him. It was just the one guy, and it wasn't the first time he'd been spoken to like that. The best thing to do was ignore him and carry on like normal. It had worked before, it would work now. _Right?_ He smiled to himself, and let his eyelids close.

Two heartbeats later, Clay shot up in bed again and eyeballed his lamp wrathfully. _Wrong._

How dare George speak to him like that when all he was trying to do was be friendly? Well, okay. Clay admitted that he had originally intended to persuade George too, as the phrase was so commonly put, 'join his fanclub'. After all, the guy was nice-looking - anyone with eyes couldn't deny that. Undoubtedly Clay had been sizing the other boy up.

Clay stilled. _A crush?_ Two lines divided the space between his eyebrows, perfect medians. Then: _Nah._ He laughed to himself and turned over. Clay hadn't had a real crush since tenth grade, and besides, a single (rather one-sided) conversation wasn't enough grounding for even the basest of attractions. Conclusively, Clay had simply been working the angles like he did for everyone.

George, however, had apparently disliked him on sight… or, Clay considered, maybe on reputation. Yet what had he done to deserve it? _Nothing!_ He felt that he hadn't come on too strong.  
Sure, he'd been confident, but most people liked that in him. He had been confident, he'd been sexy, he'd been poised… he'd done everything right. With one more unhappy sigh of annoyance, and a warning creak from his roommate's bed, Clay vowed that he'd win the guy over tomorrow.

 _After all,_ he thought with a jaw-cracking yawn, _who can resist me when I really turn on the charm?_

* * *

George tapped his pencil severely on the wooden desk in front of him. A blank piece of paper stared back at him defiantly, daring him to try and put ideas on it. He sighed and leaned back, not up to the challenge. Pops erupted up and down his spinal column as he stretched. He was the first person in the classroom, as he was with all of his classes.  
It was a nervous habit of his, arriving before any of his peers – he hated to be the object of even the most passing scrutiny as he made his way to his desk.

Turning his head, he looked around the room for inspiration. Nothing. The blank dark paneled walls hid no plotlines; the rickety professor's desk yielded no main characters. The dead fluorescent light above him smothered any prose it gazed upon.

George shoved his pencil back into his backpack in frustration and covered his eyes with his hands momentarily. By the end of the week, he and his peers in the Introduction to Playwriting class had to come up with the main idea of their thesis play. George had no idea what he wanted to write about.  
He'd dreamed about writing his own play for a long time, but each attempt had ended up in the wastebasket in the band room of his high school.  
Now, though. Now he needed some inspiration.

His gaze fell on the desk in the front and center of the room and he felt a resurfacing of yesterday's disbelief uncurl in his gut. Maybe he should write a farce about popular jocks, he thought with a short laugh. The smile began to slowly straighten out as he stared at the desk, the sudden thought unfurling in his brain like flags in the wind.

He could work with that. He snorted lightly at the idea but couldn't take his eyes off the desk. _I can't be seriously considering making a play about Clay Dream._

 _How about a play about the people who surround Dream?_ His brain questioned. _The ones whisper excitedly to their friends every time he passes them? Those who drop their homework and subsequently their grades every time he needs a posse to go clubbing with. Those people who hang around him 24/7 in hopes that they'll happen to be next to him when he next gets his picture taken. The ones he pretends to know, but really probably doesn't even see clearly in his mind's eye. What about a play based on them?_

George's pencil found its way back into his hand and began tapping slowly on the desk. A sudden image jumped into his mind: The door to the classroom banging open, the heads of twenty-nine students whipping around in unison as a god walked through the door.

The pencil tapped faster. The scene faded to a bare stage. Ten actors wearing white masks grew out of the stage. Hooks were embedded in the foreheads of the masks, attached to long crimson ribbons that connected to long two-by-fours hanging a foot from the stage ceiling. The boards were nailed together to mimic a puppeteer's marionette controls. There was a flash of light, colored smoke, a large _bang!_ The marionette board jerked; each of the ten white faces wrenched around to stare in awe, Stage Left! A brightly colored figure wearing an elaborate mask.

Writing appeared on the previously blank page. The stage was set. The colorful new arrival hit his mark and paused dramatically. The audience held its breath. The actor in the colored suit opened his mouth and a baritone voice rang out emphatically –  
"Oh my _God_ , Clay! You are _so_ funny! Isn't he funny?"

George stared down at his page in surprise. Why was the actor saying that? Looking around at the once-empty classroom, he realized that he'd simply transcribed the words of a tow-haired, cow-eyed girl four paces to his left. Reality came rushing back and he winced as the real world intruded on his idea.

Making his way to the seat at the front of the class was none other than Clay Dream, followed closely by his troupe. George managed a passing glare in their direction and erased the last line of the screenplay. He'd rather not include a high-pitched gawking female in the first act. She could come in later, if necessary. Her real-life counterpart gave forth another gale of laughter, and George counted backward from ten before rubbing the eraser so thoroughly over the paper that it ripped. _No girly stuff in this play; I'd never survive the production._

Dream slid into his desk with natural athletic grace. His fanclub pooled around him before dispersing throughout the room. George attempted to block out their individual conversations by pulling out his book and attempting to read it with his fingers stuffed in his ears, but found that he couldn't turn the pages that way.

Sighing perhaps a bit overdramatically, he pulled his fingers out of his ears and shut the novel regretfully. He bent sideways at the waist and stuffed it back into his backpack again. A pair of jeans came into his peripheral vision, then stopped just in front of his backpack. George tugged on the bag to remove it from the path of the legs and searched for his notebook. The legs didn't move.  
George experienced a thrill of premonition and hoped against hope that they didn't belong to who he thought they did. He narrowed his eyes slightly as a precautionary measure and straightened up with as much dignity as he could muster.

 _Curses._ Dream leaned against the desk across from him the way models leaned, bracing himself without seeming to need the support. His jade eyes crinkled with the force of the blinding smile that was, apparently, directed at George himself. His blond-highlighted curls were in disarray, and he'd abandoned the letter jacket from yesterday in favor of his away-game soccer jersey.

"Hey," Clay said simply.

George remained unimpressed. It was obvious that yesterday's direct antagonism hadn't stung Dream enough to make the idiot leave him alone. In a particularly non-verbose mood, George opted for a change in tactic: He would react to Dream's presence only with complete and utter indifference.

"Hi," he said coolly, before returning his attention to the search for his notebook.  
Locating it, he flipped to the second page and began going over his homework again. The form in his peripheral vision didn't move. George waited it out for perhaps twenty seconds. Dream shifted very slightly. George caught a glimpse of the sly grin on the other boy's lips.  
He sighed, put down his pencil, and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"Look, can I help you with something?"

* * *

"Look, can I help you with something?"

Clay's smile bloomed, and he awarded himself points for making contact. "I think so. See, we got off to kind of a rough start yesterday."  
The brunette raised his thinly arched eyebrows. "At least you have a decent grip on the obvious."  
Clay stared at him in indignation – _An insult already?_ – though his well-trained smile only faltered a little. George favored him with a level gaze.

"Right, right," Clay muttered, feeling slightly off-balance. "So…"  
Mercifully, George broke through the pause in the conversation. "Did you just come over here to let me in on that little secret, or did you want something?"  
Clay started out of his indignation. "Yeah, I did want something." The soccer star leaned down and relaxed, putting all of the charm he could muster into his thousand-watt smile.  
"I want _you_ to call me Clay."

George gave him an even, oddly quelling stare, then closed his notebook very deliberately.  
"Go away, Clay."

Clay stared down in disbelief. George plucked a novel from his backpack and opened it. Clay wheeled about on his heel and marched back to his desk, missing completely the spark of victory that erupted behind George's brown eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yah  
> Another fun fact: this story was not supposed to be a dnf fic but an original slash. Then, one night I thought "hmm...theater guy George, can play trombone, takes zero shit" and so here we are
> 
> I will try to post as often as I can! Maybe once or twice a week (and more consistently after my final exams end) bear with me until then (:
> 
> Leave a comment :)  
> Criticism and suggestions are always welcome!
> 
> Also follow me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/OverTheJune) clout gives me motivation lol


	4. Interlude: Pitfalls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an interlude. The characters do not interact in this chapter tho it is kind of important for George's backstory. OKAY, enough spoilers.

_Act I, Scene I._

_Blank stage. No backdrop: Blackout. Four beats after curtain rises, bump downlights to full._

_  
Ten actors all draped in black wear white masks with drooping, sad eyes and sagging, wide, miserable frowns. Large chain hooks are embedded in the forehead of each of the masks. Crimson ribbons attach the actors to an enormous marionette's control hanging from the ceiling. They stare out into the crowd, directionless._

_Stage left; flash of lights, purple smoke, timpani roars. The lead appears; an actor decked out in a brightly colored costume and a severe mask. The marionette control jerks wildly; the strings pull taut and the actor's heads are wrenched towards the bright actor in unison._

_The lead gestures in a sweeping arc motion across the stage. At his sign, the strings are cut loose from the marionette control and the actors crumple to the ground. Cue blackout._

_End of Scene I._

George sighed and dropped his pencil on the faded blue-checked bedspread. Writing out the first scene of his assigned homework had helped him forget about his strange afternoon…for about fifteen minutes. It was simply no use.

He gazed around the room, distracted. Screenplays and other homework lay strewn across the floor, while his scratch paper from yesterday's class and the nicer version of his new play lay in front of him on his bed. The pencil rolled off the bed as George shifted; he grumbled and bent down over the side to pick it up.

As he grabbed it, his eyes fell upon the current issue of the Minnesota Daily, the campus newspaper. He brought it up with him, intent on reading Dr. Date's column before he got back to his play. A flash of maroon and gold on the front page caught his eye, and he unfolded the paper to have a look.

 _Dream Leads Team to 2-1 OT Victory over Badgers._ Below the large-fonted headline was a close-up of Dream himself, mud-splattered and beautiful, triumphantly pumping the air with his upraised fists as his teammates mobbed him. George stared at the paper in disbelief before hurling the whole thing at his closet door. The paper collided with the plastic and drooped miserably to the floor. George covered his face in his hands and sighed.  
 _This is already out of hand._

He had hoped that his first day of the semester would be an uneventful one, but now all he could hope for was that Dream would lose his inexplicable interest quickly. George wasn't keen on the idea of Dream flirting with him. It made him uncomfortable; making old questions and feelings pull at his mind and heart. Instinctively, he sought to avoid Dream's persistent – albeit probably harmless – flirtation. _Maybe he'll take the hint._

He took a deep breath and let it out again. If only he could say that to the star's face. He'd gone out with a jock once. As soon as the guy had found someone more interesting, however, George had been unceremoniously dumped. One minute, happy and supposedly in love, the next… He'd felt like a wet newspaper, out of date, obsolete, discarded in the rain. He'd vowed then to never let it happen again.

Since that day, he'd kept his vow, though the initial sharp bitterness had faded from his mind, leaving behind a simple throbbing caution. He hadn't dated since. At first, it was as if he was wrapped in Saran Wrap – an invisible but very present layer of _something_ lay between himself and potential significant others. After the hurt had mostly subsided, he'd simply been too busy to date, too busy with the theater. George's pen stilled as his line of thought reached a surprising conclusion. _Has it really been four years?_ It sounded right.

George paused with his hand on an old play, remembering that he had spent that one horrible day crying in a little-used hallway off the side of the school until he heard the voice of the custodian coming his way. He'd scrambled through a black door marked simply with a _4_ and ended up in the backstage area, where he'd never been before. He sat with his knees in his chest, shivering beside a boom light rig in the inky blackness until the stage director and drama teacher, Mr. Cavoti, had found him.

A small smile stole freely over George's face as he remembered the concerned look on the old man's face. George had told him what was wrong between sniffles, and the old man had nodded wisely. He'd told the high schooler that love was a game of pitfalls and that he had to be quick and bold not to fall too hard. He had decided that George should help him set up the stage for that night's rehearsal to take his mind off the situation.  
Looking back on it, George privately felt that this might have an equal amount to do with the mysterious absence of that day's stage manager.

His less-cynical past self had gladly complied, and from that night on had been part of the theater scene. He'd grown from a scenery hand into a chorus role, then into a speaking part before finally summoning the courage to take a leading role. He had become popular in the way that drama stars in high school are popular, which meant simply that he was no longer invisible and no longer bullied.  
It was, nevertheless, an empowering feeling, to become something more than simply a soccer player's sloppy seconds.

George shook his head, coming out of his memories. He pulled his play paperback towards him.  
 _And that, Clay Dream, is a problem for you._

* * *

Rain slid down the grimy window of Nicholson Hall, and Clay slid lower in his seat along with the silver droplets. Mademoiselle Barclay's nasal voice droned on and on, and the pages of _Introduction to French_ in front of him blurred and refocused. Clay rested his forehead on the palm of his hand and gave into the soothing roll of thunder in the distance. His green eyes filmed over.

Clay's mind rambled from subject to subject. He made a mental note to check if Liverpool had beat Arsenal in soccer last night. He wondered why the feisty British sophomore in his English class disliked him so much. He mused that French had probably been the wrong thing to try to fit into his already over-packed schedule, especially since he couldn't seem to pay attention to a single lecture. He wished George would just get over it, whatever _it_ was, and be pleasant. He decided that he hated Mlle Barclay's gray curls – she'd look better with shorter hair. He speculated on what a smiling George might look like.

The last thought was so consuming that he was brought out of his reverie. Why was he doing all of this thinking about George? Surely he wasn't _still_ upset by the other's indifference. After all, he reasoned with himself, there were plenty of other fish in the sea, and they were much easier catches.

Still, though…still. He hadn't really put the Dream charms through their paces yet. He'd had lots of practice… and he had such an intriguing subject.  
Clay couldn't help but smile into his hand as the snippy sophomore's vision floated unbidden behind his eyes. He'd felt a sharp swoop in his stomach yesterday when he'd watched George look up from whatever it was that he was writing. He'd had an expression on his face that was less malicious than usual; he was confused, yes, but not scowling. It had changed his face immeasurably; softening the lines of his bowed mouth, reducing the hardness of his brown eyes, relaxing his jaw just slightly.

The memory of that expression was what was otherwise occupying Clay's attention when Mlle Barclay, who'd been calling him for the last ten seconds, decided to take matters into her own hands. Clay had a vision of brown pumps against the dirty white tile before something cold erupted on the back of his neck. A sharp chemical scent went up into the close air. _Whiteboard cleaner!_

Clay leaped up, choking, and blushed deeply as his classmates dissolved into laughter. Mlle Barclay seemed satisfied with herself.  
"Now that I have your attention, Mr. Dream, perhaps you'd like to tell us how to translate 'I will not fall asleep in class'?"

Clay glared as he haltingly translated the sentence, bestowing what he hoped was a quelling stare upon his classmates as Mlle Barclay marched back up to the board.  
Murderously gripping his pen, he wondered how she'd translate 'I hope you're retiring soon because you're officially older than dirt'. Deciding that his grade probably couldn't handle such a proposition, his mind altered course.

 _I wonder how you translate 'Stop being such a jerk-off and let's hang out sometime'?_  
Growling, Clay decided he never wanted to try and use it anyway. He was above George's little mind game.

_I bet George can speak French._

_…Crap._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yah  
> THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THE KIND WORDS! I cannot believe there really are people who like what I write. I see every comment and I'm really sorry I don't reply to them all, my crippling social anxiety doesn't let me :')  
> And I'm also sorry for the horrible update schedule. It will improve, I promise.
> 
> Leave a comment :)  
> Criticism and suggestions are always welcome!
> 
> Follow me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/OverTheJune) for updates!


	5. Rainy Day Trombones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Irritated George is scary and Clay needs to keep his ego in check

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, well, well...is this an early update we see? ;)
> 
> I saw a few comments along the lines of "we want Clay to _respond_ " and so, here I deliver.
> 
> We're starting to hit a turning point in Clay and George's relationship! They will still bicker, George is still sassy af, and Clay is still thick in the head, so don't worry. 
> 
> A word about the characters: George is gay, and Clay is very, very bisexual. Their sexuality doesn't really matter all that much to them or anybody on the campus; everyone knows Clay is a swinger and no one really cares about George, anyway. And they are both sophomores.
> 
> Enjoy reading!

Clay Dream was irritable for the rest of the weekend. The rain would not let up and the soccer team would not give up the Bierman practice arena, so he was going through serious soccer deprivation. In want of something to do, he hit all the major parties that weekend. Alpha Omega Tau, Kappa Theta Psi, even the dorm party at Centennial Hall. The worst thing about the entire weekend, though, was no matter how many beautiful girls and boys he flirted with at the parties, he wasn't interested in a single one of them.

Clay analyzed the situation over his third mug of black lemonade at the Shout House on Sunday. He was, unusually enough, leaning against a wall away from the action, getting completely wasted as his friends danced, yelled, and had a great time. What was wrong with him? The girls who'd mobbed him as soon as he came in the door had all but disappeared, sensing that for once he wasn't the hot spot of the flirting game. One girl remained attached to him; a shy brunette with glasses that he vaguely remembered inviting to the party the day he met George.

 _George!_ Clay stood up so quickly he slopped the alcohol down his shirt and scared the brunette so bad that she squeaked and shrank away from him. Clay didn't notice; his unfocused eyes were observing something else entirely. _That_ was what was wrong with him; he was still thinking about that _stupid,_ acidic, bitter, sharp-tongued, amazing sophomore. The realization made Clay sway…or perhaps that was just the alcohol.

George. George drove him…he frowned and tried to think of the word. His addled mind came up with a million funny rhymes instead of the phrase he wanted. He vaguely registered the brunette staring at him in consternation, and he gave her an abrupt, toothy smile. She stared at him.

"Clay? Are you…um, alright?"  
"George," he replied, still grinning ridiculously.  
She glared. "My _name_ is Jennifer, Clay. I've been standing next to you all night, you'd think you'd remember my name at least instead of ignoring me. Who the _hell_ is George?"

Clay swayed and shook his head, undeterred by her anger. He lifted his mug at her, the motion vaguely resembling a toast.  
" _George,_ " he replied unsteadily, "George isss the straaaangest guy I think I ever met." He hiccupped and stared into space. Jennifer stared at him.  
"Is he…a friend of – "

She was cut off by an abrupt burst of laughter. A few patrons of the Shout House turned around to look at Clay as he giggled helplessly, then dismissed him as yet another drunken frat boy. Jennifer thought that the sophomore star didn't remotely resemble his normal, respected self as he held his sides and shook his head from side to side like he wanted to shake his brains right out of his skull.

"No – no, not a friend. He haaaates me!" Clay recovered himself enough to lean forward. Jennifer winced at his alcohol breath. His eyes took on a crazy light and she began to feel a little bit afraid. Mercifully, the soccer star leaned back and stared at the wall above her head, deep in his muzzy thoughts.  
"He's like – I 'unno… he's _gorgeous_ but…like…yeah, you know? All bitter 'n nasty…he's like the Ice Man…he givesss me the cold s-s- whatchamacallit." Clay's eyes narrowed. "I don' like it when people ignore me."

Jennifer edged away, slowly distancing herself from the distracted star. He continued to stare at the wall and mutter as she made for the door of the Shout House. As she stepped outside, giving the soccer player one more glance before she left, she thought that this George must have some kind of nerve to drive Clay this crazy. She wished she'd had it when she'd first met him as well. It would have saved her Sunday.

* * *

What was the point of Mondays? George pondered this as he pulled on his dark jeans and his _Guys And Dolls_ high school play t-shirt. Also, what was the point of Tuesday through Friday? The rain dribbled grumpily over his window; outside, those who'd had an 8 a.m. class ran for the bus. That was the one thing he had going for this semester; his earliest class started at 9:45. Not that English Language and Society was the greatest way to start off the week.

English Language and Society. The thought made George grind the palms of his hands into his eyes and groan in despair. What maddening scheme would Dream come up with today? _He better not try to stick his tongue in my ear or anything like that._ He wouldn't put it past the stuck-up soccer brat.

If anyone ever tried to stick their tongues in his ear again, George thought he'd either puke or give them a tongue piercing with his pencil. The only person who'd ever done it was Ethan Salvador, the jock who'd dated him and then abandoned him for someone fresher in his sophomore year of high school. That was different though. They'd been in a rather compromised position. On a bed. George hadn't really been protesting at that point, as his attention was focused elsewhere.

George snarled violently. Why was he thinking about Ethan _now_? That made it the second time that week! _Well, just let that be a reminder to you_ , he thought grimly. Anyway, it didn't matter, because he would never end up in a bed with Dream, and Dream wasn't _really_ likely to stick his tongue in George's ear in the middle of the classroom. Case closed.

With a sigh, George shouldered his backpack and steeled himself to run through the rain.

* * *

The hood of Clay's U of M sweatshirt was not keeping the rain out. Streaks of water ran down his nose and down his neck, drenching his shirt. He lowered his head and charged through the doors of Lind Hall. He was sans admirers for the day; he'd left at an unusual time in order to walk to class between the storms. Obviously, he'd misjudged the timing. Everything in Lind Hall was soaked; the stairs were a mass of mud, the hallways were a slip-and-slide fest.

Clay barged into his classroom with his usual vigor and stopped short in surprise. He was the first one in the room. For the entire first week of the semester, George had always beaten him to the classroom. Clay huffed and sat down, drumming his hands idly on the desktop in the silence of the room. The clock stared down at him evilly. Clay glowered back.

His eyes wandered back to George's seat and he checked his watch. It was now twenty after nine, the time that Clay usually made his appearance in the classroom, much to George's obvious despair. The soccer star sat up straighter as a sudden thought struck him. _What if he's sick?_ As soon as he thought it, the momentary feeling of panic dissipated and he felt stupid. _Good Lord…Get a grip, Clay! You don't even like this guy. He hates you, you hate him, you only thought about him last night because you were drunk off your ass! Now shut up!_

No sooner had he finished his mental tirade than the door to the classroom swung open. Clay counted to three, then looked back in a lazy fashion to see who it was. _Yesss!_ George was closing the door behind him. He looked thoroughly soaked and was cradling a large instrument case protectively. He glared at Clay as the star stifled a laugh.  
Clay watched him move around the room to his desk and shake off the black rain jacket. He couldn't help giving the other boy a once-over. _Damn, give me some of that!_ He smirked as George flopped down in his desk and pulled out several sheets of paper. He waited until the other was writing furiously before clearing his throat.

George looked up, irritated. Clay smiled at him. George shook his head and went back to work. Five minutes later, the soccer player felt the need to clear his throat again. George's irritation grew.

"Need a cough drop, Dream?"  
Clay chose to ignore the question. "You play the trombone?"  
George looked up at him scornfully. "Not that it's any of your business."  
Clay's smile widened. "Well?"  
"Well what?"  
"You play the trombone?"  
George stared at him like he was a very slow child.  
"No," he said, "I carry it around just for the hell of it."  
"You're in the marching band?"

George gave him an ice-cold look that left no doubt in Clay's mind that he was seriously overstepping his boundaries.

"I like the marching band," Clay continued, "They come to my games and play for me, it's kinda funny. You guys must really like me." He stretched his hands over his head and winked, then jumped as George's textbook slammed shut.

The trombone player's eyes were slanted furiously and Clay couldn't help but shrink away slightly in his seat. George's next words came out in a hiss.  
"We come to your _stupid_ testosterone fests _only_ because the Athletic Department _makes_ us. If our presence feeds your colossal ego, that's a tragedy, because _none_ of us even like you! You really need to get over yourself!"

They stared each other down in silence. Clay finally broke it.  
"You're the stupidest person I've ever met, you know that? You should, by _anyone's_ social standards, be _leaping_ at the chance to be friends with me! I am seriously practically the _King_ of this university, and you just sit there with your stupid book and trombone and whatever it is that you're writing, and you don't even give me a chance!"

"Give you a chance to do _what?_ " George's voice was steadily climbing in volume and he lunged forward across his desk in emphasis. "Give you a chance to drag me along to your useless parties? Give myself the chance to be a trophy on your arm as you feel up other people under the table? I'm supposed to give you the chance to tell me you're in love with me, to use me, and then see someone hotter and throw me out without a second thought? I should _give you that chance?_ You must think I have no respect for myself! Is _that_ what you think?"

Clay's mouth opened and closed like a fish's. George's wrathful gaze was locked fully onto his and he couldn't think of anything to say.

"I'm not in love with you," he heard himself stammer, though he realized that he couldn't meet George's eyes as he said it.  
George merely looked at him for a minute. His momentary ferocity was quickly dissipating, and his voice was tight but cold when he spoke next.

"Then leave me alone."

Clay looked at him. George looked back. The door swung open again, and chatter filled the room as the rest of the class filed in. Clay's friends congregated around him, and though he took his eyes off of George, he found that he couldn't think of anything else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts on dumbass Clay?
> 
> Updates are gonna take a while now, my finals start in 4 days ;-;  
> I will _try_ to upload weekly...but no promises. 
> 
> Leave a comment :)  
> Criticism and suggestions are always welcome!  
> (Refer to my [profile bio](https://archiveofourown.org/users/overthejune/profile))
> 
> Are you following me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/OverTheJune)? You better be >:)


	6. Walk Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another confrontation strikes; George makes the same argument but this time, Clay fires back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little longer than usual, and we see more background for one of the main characters! They both are edging over closer to each other but, let me warn you, it's gonna be a _while_ before something happens.
> 
> Although...we do have an 'ooh baby' moment to sate your appetites ;)
> 
> ALSO: this story is set a little in the past because halfway through writing, I realized they were not using any phones _ha ha..._
> 
> Enjoy :)

_Act I, Scene 3_

_Curtains up. Bump blue lights._

_Stage right: An actor in a scarlet-colored costume reads a book. He appears disinterested, aloof. He looks up as the boom lights flicker and light the stage completely._  
_A loud crack heralds the coming of the Bird Man with his flock of sad-eyed, masked actors. They burst onto the scene from stage left, chattering, with blasts of smoke and sound accompanying them._

_The Scarlet Man covers his ears and angrily starts to get up to find somewhere else to read. The Bird Man notices the sudden movement; he makes a motion towards the Scarlet Man. The room pauses; the marionette controls jerk the masked actors' heads towards the intruder._

_The Bird Man walks forward, hand outstretched, palm up. The Scarlet Man eyeballs him, turns on his heel smartly, and exits stage right. The Bird Man puffs himself up and snaps his fingers. The actor's heads turn back to him and the curtain falls._

* * *

Clay Dream had been in love before, only once.

Her name was Sam and she was in the same homeroom as he was in high school. She was pretty in her own way, with grey eyes and short brown hair. It was her personality, however, that Clay had fallen in love with.

She'd apparently been oblivious to her mostly plain looks and the fact that he was the most handsome, sought-after boy in the school. She'd marched right up to him in homeroom and demanded that he help her with her homework.

Clay had to admit that he'd been intrigued at the time. She hadn't understood vectors, but they were able to sort through it together. He remembered how she'd thanked him coolly at the end, her grey eyes amused. She'd packed up her bag and promptly asked him out to dinner at Shakey's. He'd accepted, more out of surprise than real interest, and met her that night for dinner.

They'd gone out for three months. Clay recalled the swooping sensation he'd felt in his stomach region whenever she'd tossed her short bob and smirked at him or the stupid grin that had come to his face whenever he'd see her in the halls. It was an amazing feeling.

They had split up because she was forced to move to California with her father. Correspondence had lasted for two months, and then they had called it off for good. Clay hadn't regretted the relationship at all. It was the only time he could recall ever being in love, even if it was puppy love.

Clay was _not_ in love now. He'd only known George for two weeks. That wasn't enough time to constitute a full head-over-heels googly-eyed love fest. He was merely… intrigued. George challenged him in the same way that Sam had. In some ways, the two were very similar. Neither cared about his popularity; they respected themselves too much to let him control them with it. Sam had never put up with him trying to dominate her. George was too prickly for Clay to even try to manage.

The similarities, however, ended there. Sam had come up to _him_ and demanded that he go out with her, whereas George continually rebuffed Clay's advances. Sam was in love with love; she was fresh in every aspect of it. George obviously had some old baggage from a former relationship; that much was obvious if Clay read between the lines of the tongue-lashing he'd gotten the other day. Sam was confident but sweet; George was dark and angry. They were two vastly different people. Clay couldn't be in love with someone so different from his first love.

It was possible, Clay allowed, that he had a tiny crush on the other boy. He might be minutely interested in what would happen if the two of them dated for a little bit. He seemed only slightly unable to get the trombone player out of his mind whenever he flirted with someone else. It was only nominally annoying.

No, Clay Dream wasn't in love. He had a crush, nothing more. It was something a person with his amount of power shouldn't have. A crush was dangerous to his playboy social life. It was something that he needed to quell, he decided, and nothing more.

* * *

_Who was he kidding?_ Clay sat in his uncomfortable plastic chair in English Language and Society and sneaked a glance out of the corner of his eye at the only other occupant of the room.

The sun shone down on George's dark form, making him seem less spiteful and more innocent. It turned his deep brown hair a lighter, gold-flecked color and took the sharp edges away from his face.  
Even the black Macbeth shirt he wore seemed more warmly colored in the light. The pencil in George's hand-scrawled rapidly across the paper in front of him. Clay was willing to bet that it was the same paper he'd been working on the first day of class

Clay's curiosity spiked at the same time as his restlessness. He abruptly shot out of his seat, grabbing his pencil with the intent of sharpening it. The sharpener was, coincidentally enough, right behind George. Clay laughed internally at his genius.

The soccer star put on his best strut as he walked past the other sophomore. George didn't even glance up at him as he passed. Clay felt a surge of irritation but quelled it by reminding himself that he was trying to be unobtrusive. It seemed the best way to stay alive at this point. He inserted his pencil into the sharpener and turned the knob as slowly as he could without arousing suspicion. At the same time, he craned his neck to peek at the piece of paper on George's desk.

The knob of the sharpener turned slower. _It's a play!_ Clay stared down in amazement. Dark, spidery handwriting outlined Act I, Scene 5. A character named 'Bird Man' was annoying the secondary character. Apparently, his incessant actions were both repelling and compelling the secondary, 'Scarlet Man', who was trying desperately to ignore him.

Clay forgot about his pencil and leaned forward as more writing appeared on the page. Darkness swathed the stage as the Bird Man grabbed the Scarlet Man and pulled him into a high-speed tango. The two characters battled furiously through the dance, the Bird Man seeking dominance, the Scarlet Man refusing to give it to him. The Bird Man tipped his partner dangerously over his arm and declined to let him back up. They stared each other down –  
"What the hell are you doing?" George's voice cut sharply into his concentration and Clay reared back in surprise. He looked down into a pair of irate brown eyes. Rousing himself out of his shock, he indicated the sharpener behind him.

"I was sharpening my pencil."  
"For five minutes? Is it made out of titanium or something?"  
Clay's anger peaked.  
"FINE! I didn't come over here to sharpen my pencil; I came over here to look at what you're writing." As he said it, he reached around and jerked the paper out of George's grasp; studying it momentarily.  
There was a sharp grating sound as George's desk made a trench out of the floor.  
Clay looked up in lazy surprise. George stomped the two feet it took to get to the star and grabbed the play back. For once, he seemed too angry to belittle Clay with a scathing insult.

The trombone player turned back to his desk. Clay's anger swooped again, and he dove forward. His hand clamped down around the shorter sophomore's wrist like a vice. George made a strangled sound that seemed halfway between anger and fear as Clay hauled the smaller boy back towards him.

George tried to twist away, but Clay grabbed the other boy's shoulder with his free hand and used it to drag him right up to his face. All movement suddenly ceased and they stood there with only George's harsh breathing to break the silence.

Clay stared down into the other sophomore's eyes. His pupils were dilated in a combination of rage and terror; all Clay could see was brown obsidian. George's breath was coming fast and his shoulder and wrist flexed against Clay's grip, testing it. Clay kept his hands firmly clamped down. He wasn't about to let George escape now.

* * *

George was trapped and both of them knew it. The desk was preventing him from moving backward; Clay's sheer physical superiority kept him from slipping away in any other direction.

There was no leeway for George to fight back; Clay was crushed against him and had both arms pinned. The shorter sophomore's breath came out short and fast; Clay's jade eyes glared into his brown ones from a distance of two inches. George flinched slightly as Clay inclined his head slightly and closed the distance between them another inch.

The soccer star's voice came out in an angry growl.  
"Why are you such an _ass?_ "

George did his best to glare back and get some solidarity back into his voice.  
"I could say the same to you!"  
" _You're_ the one who acts like a goddamned porcupine all the time!"  
"Yeah? _You_ just don't want to accept that there's one person in the world who doesn't want to kiss your feet! You're the biggest prick I think I've ever met!"

Clay snarled and closed the distance between them until their lips were only centimeters apart. George let out another snarl of fright and tried to struggle backward. Clay stopped him easily and stared into his eyes, the glare replaced by a calmer expression.

"I think you want me," his voice came out soft and sure, "I think you want me but you're just too afraid to try me."

George yelped internally. _I don't want him. I don't want him._

His thoughts were becoming fuzzy and confused even as he tried to use them to defend himself. His resolve slipped away at the feeling of the star's body crashed to his; rock hard muscles perfectly filling the spaces between his own, jade eyes boring into his soul, the soft voice destroying his resolve, assurance of his inherent victory etched into every line of that face as he waited for George to break – wait! _NO!_

With strength boosted by a sudden surge of frustration and mortification, George heaved Clay off of him, sending the star crashing into the desk behind them. George straightened up, readying himself to confront Dream once and for all.

* * *

Pain shot through Clay's body as the edge of the desk caught him in the small of his back. He struggled to get up but suddenly found himself pinned back down to the top of the desk by an incensed form.  
He looked up and found George's eyes glaring into his. The trombone player was shaking, either in rage or fear. Clay couldn't tell which it was.

"You – do – _not_ – own – me!" Clay could only stare at George in astonishment as each word was hissed into his face. "You – you – you're just like Ethan!"

Clay was abruptly released as George seemed to recover himself slightly. Clay watched him intently as the shorter sophomore took a few steps away, then wheeled around to face the star once more.

" _You,_ " he said, pointing an accusing index finger at the soccer player, "You go through people like Kleenex. I've seen you do it. Every time you go to a party, you go in with one girl and come out with a different one. It's like your trademark or something. You must have had more one-night stands than the rest of the campus combined! I can't believe that just because you're good at kicking a stupid ball into a net that you can get away with not caring about anyone!"

Clay started to protest but was cut off before he could even get a syllable out.

"Everyone has to conform to your standards, everyone has to meet with your approval! When you have a disagreement with someone, _you don't_ change, _they_ do! You even go around calling yourself 'the King'! Well, guess what, Your Highness? I won't be used by you, so find yourself another guy to hit on! It won't be hard to find someone else; it seems to be a strength of yours."

Clay found his voice and his temper at the same time. "You _sad,_ bitter little person! You can't accuse me of being emotionally stunted when all you do is close yourself off all day! What are _you_ contributing to the love scene, huh? Maybe a one-night stand would do you some good!"

George dropped into his chair and covered his face with his hands, completely spent from the argument. His voice was drained.  
"Just leave me alone, Dream."

Clay gritted his teeth and forced himself to walk calmly back to his desk. He flopped down and took out his textbook before looking back in George's direction. He felt an odd pang in his chest at the sight. George's head was resting in his forearms, which were sprawled across the desktop. He looked completely dispirited, and the sun, which had highlighted him so beautifully only minutes before, only served to accent his pain.

Clay's chest clenched strangely and he looked back towards the front of the room. Mercifully, the door opened soon after, and the sun shone brightly on Clay's undamaged conquests as they faithfully surrounded him once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO. Clay is starting to understand why George hates him and his jock friends. It totally went over his head in the last chapter, but my boy is getting there.
> 
> I understand that y'all want these two to just make out already. But I'm a sadist and I like watching people suffer so you're gonna have to wait >:)
> 
> Also, also! This marks the end of **Act I** (build-up chapters). Things will now begin to get ~interesting~
> 
> Follow me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/OverTheJune), I sometimes post snippets of what I'm writing =]


	7. Stages of Grief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clay has a little talk with a friend; George tries to reason with his conflicting feelings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...And Sapnap officially enters the storyline!
> 
> This chapter has been one of my favs to write so far. There's gonna be a LOT of switching of the POVs, mirroring thoughts, and a conversation between the homies ;)
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> *Non-graphic nsfw warning*

Clay could not escape the guilty feeling in his gut. He knew he'd been in the wrong, as awkward as it was to admit that fact to himself. He'd never really placed himself in the wrong before; sure, he'd admitted blame in order to quell a coach's fury or to soothe his parent's madness. He'd just never really felt bad about his actions at either of those times.

Clay lay on his green-quilted bed, staring at the smoke detector. Train accompanied his thought process in his headphones, and while Clay thought they were a great band, they weren't really offering him any solutions to his immediate problem.

He'd messed up. He knew it. He just had to find some way to make it better again. It was another unfamiliar feeling; the desire to apologize, to make up and be friends again (or friends, period). In the first place, he'd never made any obvious enemies because of his stardom. And when he'd made those enemies by either accidentally or intentionally hurting them, he had never, _ever_ felt the need to kiss and make up.

This was Clay's line of thought when the lock to his room was forced to surrender. His roommate banged into the room, cussing a blue streak at the key in his hand. Clay smiled. Halfback Nicholas Armstrong-Aetos never failed to amuse him; it was one of the many reasons they were such close friends. He was like Alex, Clay thought, but with more self-respect.

Nick looked up and huffed.  
"Let's see _you_ get in here with this key, white boy."

Clay laughed and looked back up at the ceiling. Nick shrugged off his soccer sweatshirt and backpack, then dropped onto the futon directly across from his reclined roommate. His hazel eyes watched Clay intently.  
Since the first week of the semester, Clay had been acting funny, and Nick was determined to get down to the cause of it all. First Clay had been stomping around the room or sighing at the ceiling in some sort of frustration. Then he'd been increasingly distracted; glowering at the walls and mumbling assertively in his sleep.

Yesterday, however, was something completely different. Nick had been working on his Calculus III homework when Clay had slunk through the door after his English Language class. The boy had looked completely whipped, shame-faced, whatever you wanted to call it. He'd dropped his backpack and crawled right into his bed, pulling the sheets up over his eyes. Nick had decided to give his roommate some space, and Clay had recovered by that evening. The only thing to suggest that something had happened was this new contemplative phase Clay seemed to be going through.

Even now, the soccer player was staring at the ceiling again, lost in thought. When Nick had met him two years ago, he had been shocked to learn that the soccer star was even _capable_ of thought. He'd gradually built a bond with the other athlete, however, and they'd become friends.  
Nick didn't agree with Clay's lifestyle, but he kept his comments to himself. Nick was a very introverted man with a sly sense of humor; he was full of advice but would only dispense it when pressed. Though he speculated that he was probably one of Clay's only true friends, he tried to leave the other sophomore's social life to himself. That was why he hadn't tried to talk to Clay about what was bothering him this semester. Now, though, it seemed time.

Nick threw the futon pillow at the other boy's head.  
"Hey, wake up."  
Clay grumpily popped an eye open to glare at the halfback.  
"Whaddayouwant."  
"Wanna talk about it?"

It was funny how quickly Clay could wake up when he wanted to.  
"About what?" Clay meant it to sound casual, Nick was sure. It came just short. He spoke clearly and assuredly so that Clay couldn't twist his words and send the conversation down an entirely different route.  
"About whatever's causing your strange mood swings. Now I know soccer's not bothering you, and you haven't complained about your classes yet this semester. I just want to tell you that if you want to talk about it, I'm here to listen."

Clay wondered what it was about Nick that allowed him to say something so totally girly, yet also maintain his masculinity at the same time. Perhaps it was his strange sage-like quality; even now, he was cross-legged on the futon, staring at Clay with calm intensity. He looked like a monk. Or Yoda. Clay stifled a giggle at the thought.

Well, what could it hurt? Clay pushed himself off of his pillow and sat Indian-style on his bed. He picked at the forest green fabric as he thought.

"I don't know where to begin," he said sheepishly. Nick lifted a dark eyebrow at the soccer player and decided to make it easier for him.  
"Is it about a girl?"  
Clay shook his head mutely.  
"A boy?"  
Clay felt the heat rise to his face. _Damn!_

* * *

Clay's sudden blush surprised the halfback. He'd never seen the usually lewd and unselfconscious sophomore so much as bat an eye at love, never mind blush at the mere mention of it. Nick's grin widened, white teeth flashing across his handsome face.  
"AHA! So, spill. What's the deal? He not working out for you?"

Clay's face transformed from the embarrassing love-struck face to a deeply mournful expression. It was nearly comical. Nick would have laughed if he hadn't subconsciously grasped the magnitude of the situation. Anyone who could bring that expression to Clay's face was a special person.

Clay sighed again.  
"He's very…different."  
Nick lifted his eyebrows. "How so?"  
"He's…not impressed by me at all."  
Nick fought to keep the smile off of his face. He'd known that one day this would happen. "And...?" he prodded gently.

Clay ended up spilling the entire sad story to his friend, from the cold meeting on the first day of class to the disastrous confrontation last Friday. As he concluded his retelling, he actually seemed ready to cry or to hit something at the very least. Nick pondered in the silence that filled the room.  
Clay looked up at him intently, obviously praying that he had some godlike advice to give.

Nick sighed and straightened up.  
"Clay, man, you made a big fat ass out of yo'self."  
Clay's expression became more miserable as Nick confirmed his suspicions.  
"I just –" the blond boy stammered, looking surprised at his own words. "I just want to make it better, you know? I never, ever wanted to be friends with someone so bad, and I don't understand why I can't even talk to him without fighting."  
"Maybe you're trying too hard."  
Clay looked grumpy. "Yeah, maybe."  
Nick leaned forward. "Know what I'd do?"  
"What?" Clay's voice was hopeful.  
"I'd go have fun with your buddies tonight, then go talk to _Alyssa_ in the morning."  
Clay's expression immediately brightened.  
"Alyssa! I forgot about her!"

Nick's mouth twitched up at the thought. "You haven't talked to her in a long time, you know."  
The blond looked guilty. "Yeah, I know…Do you really think she can help?"  
"I _know_ she can," Nick said firmly, "She's the Love Doctor, remember?"

Clay laughed at the nickname and agreed. Nick watched him put on his coat and dial-up some of his friends to accompany him to the Shout House.

The halfback picked up his Calculus book once more as Clay's tousled head disappeared behind their door. He picked up his pencil and was about to start problem 53 when the door swung open again. He looked up in surprise.  
"Forget somethin'?"  
Clay looked uncomfortable and fidgeted in the doorway.  
"Yeah, I forgot to say…thanks, man."  
Nick's smile drew across his face again.  
"Anytime, man. Anytime."

* * *

The Shout House was always a riot waiting to happen, and Clay Dream was well known for being the catalyst for that riot. As soon as he walked through the door with his chosen posse of the night, the taps started flowing faster and the floor began to heat up.

Clay intended to get totally smashed, grab some guy, and get right into bed. He swore to get that _stupid_ sophomore's face and his own guilty feelings out of his head for the entirety of that night, and at least the first half of tomorrow (he'd reserved that timeslot for holding his head and puking).

After casting an imperious glance over the dance floor, Clay strutted up to the bar and ordered a round of Jell-O shots. The bartender snorted, knowing the effect those shots would have on the King; but hey, if the kid wanted it, he could have it. He'd only be in trouble if the police came, and they never did.

Clay sat down easily on a barstool and surveyed the room for prospective bed buddies for the night.  
He was looking for a brunette, preferably with brown eyes. He smirked as his gaze landed on one who was already swaying near the opposite wall. Clay tossed back his shot and stood up.

* * *

_Act II, Scene I_

_Curtains up, cue boom lights._

_The Bird Man is alone on the stage. He crosses his arms over his chest and looks around authoritatively. This is his kingdom. He raises his head as a creaking sound appears from Stage Right._

_Stage Right: The Scarlet Man appears. He takes one look at the Bird Man and tries to leave again, but the Bird Man rushes forward and grabs him. He slowly turns the Scarlet Man around and holds him calmly by the shoulders. The Scarlet Man stares at him._

_There is an eerie chiming in the air as the empty marionette strings sway above their heads. The Bird Man pulls the Scarlet Man closer to him, wrapping his arm around the Scarlet Man's waist and using the other to cradle his cheek. The Scarlet Man is still._

* * *

George hissed as the hot water hit him, then relaxed into it. It seemed the only way he could relax these days was to pelt himself with hot liquid. He leaned his head back and soaked his dark brown hair, turning it black. The muscles in his shoulders gradually relaxed, unknotting where the warm water ran over them.

Saturday was a good and a bad day to be in emotional turmoil, George thought as he turned the water temperature up. It was good because it meant that he didn't have to face the object of his frustration. It was bad for the same reason; now he had all weekend to stew about it.

George growled and reached for the water switch. He was willing to bet that Clay Dream, the superstar, had not given their confrontation a single thought since he'd walked out of that room on Friday. How could he expect the star to feel guilty? He was probably having a great time right at that second.

* * *

Clay weaved through the swaying bodies and alcoholic beverages as he searched for the brunette he'd seen earlier. He stood on tiptoe to look around a burly man with a goatee, who promptly sprayed smoke at him like an octopus. Clay waved his hand in front of his face in disgust and shot around the man at the first opportunity. He scanned the wall quickly – yes!

The brunette slouched against the wall in an alcoholic daze, hands deep in his pockets. He eyed Clay up and down as the soccer star approached him. Clay mimicked the other's posture and smiled down at him. His were indeed brown eyes. _Thank God._

"Hey there."

* * *

_Act II, Scene 3_

_The Scarlet Man shakes as the Bird Man holds him gently. He puts his hands on the Bird Man's heavily decorated shoulders. The marionette controls jangle warningly and the chimes sound again, but the Scarlet Man is no longer paying them any heed._

_Dim boom lights; cue blue lights. Electric guitar duets with bells. The Bird Man sweeps the Scarlet Man into his arms and they renew their wild tango._

* * *

George supposed that he was also at fault. It probably wouldn't have hurt, he reflected as he washed the shampoo from his hair, to have shaken the star's hand on the first day of class and been done with it. Yes, he would have been just another part of Clay Dream's posse, one of many different masked drones. But at least he wouldn't be the object of the soccer star's scorn.

Callahan, the neutral boy who sat behind him in class, had quietly introduced himself to Dream on the first day. He'd ended up on the very outer layer of Dream's fan club, labeled as a hopeless cause who wouldn't go partying with the rest of the club. They'd left him alone from then on.

George grabbed the conditioner bottle in a death grip. _Why couldn't he have just gotten it over with?_

Who was he kidding? He knew it hadn't been an option. From the second he'd laid eyes on the soccer player on the brightly lit field, George had known that it would be disastrous to even look in the other sophomore's direction. It was too much like his first love; the star's personality struck way too close for comfort.

Yes, George knew that being friends with Clay Dream had never been an option. He just wished he could forget why.

* * *

The hallway was darkened and smelled of sweat and loam. The brunette moaned into Clay's mouth as the star claimed his tonsils; his hands moved under the soccer player's shirt and ran circles over his chest. Clay shivered and forced the other man into the wall harder.

The brunette reversed their positions abruptly and managed to get his legs between Clay's. _Mmm, interesting… an aggressive one._ Clay hissed as the other man ground sharply against him and he felt a familiar tightness in his jeans. He grabbed his new friend and pulled him down the hallway to find somewhere more private.

* * *

_Act II, Scene 4_

_The Bird Man and the Scarlet Man dance in a wild tango. The pace quickens; the electric guitar dominates the flutes and bells._

_The tango is another quest for domination, much like their first dance. The Bird Man is winning. He dips the Scarlet Man and, once again, refuses to let him up. They stare into each other's eyes. The Scarlet Man tips his head back, acknowledging the Bird Man's win._

* * *

After all, George thought, it wasn't like anything would ever happen between them. He didn't want it to happen. He turned the water temperature down. The soap ran in rivers off of his skin.

* * *

After all, Clay thought, it wasn't like anything would ever happen between them. He didn't need it to happen. He pushed the nameless brunette down on the mattress as he fumbled for the clasp on his pants. The darkness of the room beat down against his skin.

* * *

_Act II, Scene 5_

_The Bird Man pulls the Scarlet Man back up. The warning chimes are silent; the Scarlet Man has ignored his intuition. The marionette controls the flag overhead, but the Bird Man quells them with a look. A sad-eyed masked actor stares out from Stage Right; it's inferred that he was once a Scarlet Man too._  
_The Bird Man notices the masked actor and shoos him away discreetly._

_He exits Stage Left without a sound._

* * *

George couldn't stop thinking about him. The water alternately burned and froze his skin; angry red blotches were beginning to appear. He gave a roar of frustration and turned the water all the way on cold.

* * *

Clay couldn't stop thinking about him. Even as he worked over his partner, he was imagining a different pair of brown eyes looking up at him, a darker personality melding with his own. He gave a roar of frustration and came.

* * *

One day, George thought, it would be resolved, and his heart would break again.

* * *

One day, Clay thought, it would be resolved, and his heart would feel something new.

* * *

_Act II, Scene 6_

_Cue blue lights. The Bird Man holds the Scarlet Man in his arms after the wild dance. The Scarlet Man pulls away gently, but the Bird Man grabs ahold of him again and pulls him back. This time, the Scarlet Man stays._

_They stand there in silence, then the Bird Man reaches towards the Scarlet Man's chest. From underneath the fabric, he pulls out a fist-sized, glowing red prism. It's the Scarlet Man's heart._

_Cue red lights. The Bird Man puts the heart in his pocket. The Scarlet Man doesn't move._

_Curtain; end of Act II._

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WELL THAT WAS A RIDE, HUH
> 
> What advice would Alyssa give to Clay, and would it do him any good?  
> Leave your thoughts in the comments :D
> 
> Also, just a side note, the characters were supposed to be OCs, so their personalities would obviously differ from the CCs. The characters only have their names and similar physical description. There's nothing else in common between them. Their sexualities, thoughts, opinions, and behavior are all made-up. And yes, I gave Sapnap a half-Greek last name just for fun.
> 
> If you have any questions, feel free to DM me
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/OverTheJune)  
> [tumblr](https://khusharma.tumblr.com)


	8. The Love Doctor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clay meets with Alyssa and George joins the theater

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is more Clay-centric, or rather, more about his talk with Alyssa. 
> 
> I understand Clay is not well-liked right now. He's not supposed to be a sympathetic charater...yet. He's about to go through some ~mysterious~ changes tho, thanks to Cupid ;)
> 
> Hope you like it!

Everything…hurt.

Clay hissed and curled up in a fetal position as the sun sprang through the window and performed a double backflip into his jade eyes. The action made his entire back scream out in surprise, and the soccer star lay there whimpering until the agony subsided.

Where the hell was he? Clay shaded his eyes with his hand before daring to open them again. Blinking the pink dancing spots away, he sat up and looked around. It did the soccer player no good; he still had no idea where he was. Groggily, he checked around the bed in which he was laying. He found his clothes mashed into a pile halfway underneath the headboard.

Glowering, Clay pulled on his clothes and located his watch. _11:43_ read the silver hands on his once-gleaming, now stained Rolex. He vowed to clean it off once he got home.

The door to his room for the night opened into a dark, quiet hallway. Snoring resounded from behind the decorated doors of the rooms that lined it. Clay tiptoed to the stairs and silently descended to the first floor. A large plaque greeted him as he found himself in the entryway to the house.

_Phi Beta Gamma: 100 years of service to the community, to the University of Minnesota, and to Our Brothers._

Clay barely stifled an explosive laugh of relief. Half of his soccer brothers belonged to this fraternity; he must have been really out of it not to realize where he was. He turned around and surveyed the area. The once unfamiliar-looking living room winked at him, satisfied with its little joke. Clay winked back and pulled open the door. He'd be in a better state of mind after a shower and some food.

* * *

George walked cautiously down the northernmost hallway of the Rarig Center, repeatedly checking a piece of paper in his hand as he did. He let out a silent cheer as the door to 220A loomed in front of him. He raised his hand and knocked three times.

"Come in! Come in!"

The dimly lit room was crowded with theater posters, props, and screenplays. George felt his muscles relax as he entered; it felt just like the backstage area in his high school. Graphics of plays were tattooed across the dark walls and were steadily creeping onto the ceiling. A thin, short old man with wispy white hair energetically waved him into the room and pointed at a chair in front of the cluttered desk.

"Welcome, welcome! You must be George, then? Ah, good! I am Anders Christian, your advisor and the stage director for the University Theater Club. I am happy to see you today!"

George couldn't help but crack a smile at the old man, who seemed to be continuously in motion as he spoke; making standing motions and sitting right back down, banging on odd pots on his desk with his pencil, jerking his head back and forth excitably. His keen dark eyes took in George's appearance and the sophomore was glad that he'd worn the clothes he had; the paint-splattered jeans, black _Guys and Dolls_ shirt, and black leather jacket seemed to blend perfectly with this room.

For the next half hour Anders Christian quizzed George on his knowledge of the theater, past experiences, how he felt about certain plays, and about his choice of major. George felt that they were more often on a tangent than on what they were supposed to be discussing, but he didn't feel the need to complain.

For the first time since his sophomore year began, George began to feel the stirrings of excitement that meant he was about to do something great in the theater. Anders Christian was the key. Now he had to find the lock. Remembering his assignment for Introduction to Playwriting, George decided to derail the _'MacBeth'_ train to get some information.

"Ah!" Anders Christian fidgeted excitedly as George made his request, "So you want to be involved with my little theater club! Excellent! Excellent! Yes, you'll fit right in. You've had a strong career already in musicals; I would like you to audition for me for a variety of plays and then we'll see where your strengths lie. I think, personally, that _Quotation Marks_ will fit you well, but you never know! You never know. Yes, yes."

George left the room with a considerable pile of audition materials. For the first time since the year began, he couldn't stop smiling. A weight had been lifted off of his shoulders. He was back on the theater scene at last.

* * *

Clay sat on a bench facing Northrop Auditorium and let the spring sun warm his face. As the minutes crawled by, his head dropped back. He couldn't prevent his mouth from falling open slightly, nor his jade eyes from closing. It had been a long night, after all.

He was rudely awakened mid-snore by a strange tickling in his throat.  
The soccer star simultaneously shot upright and sneezed. Glittery dust shimmered all over his shirt and he waved his hands at it as if he could banish it by doing so.

"Alyssa!" he whined. There was a mad giggling behind him and he whipped around in his seat to glare at its source.

Alyssa stood behind him with a vial of what she liked to refer to as 'Pixie Dust' but was really just glittery eyeshadow crushed up and mixed with Elmer's glue. She often used it to torment the weary who fell asleep with their mouths open. Clay couldn't believe he'd forgotten about it and had let himself get caught by her. He wiped at his mouth grumpily and indicated the seat next to him with a wave of his hand.

Alyssa plopped down and grinned wickedly at him. Her cheerfully evil grey-blue eyes laughed at his predicament from under her platinum blonde hair, which was tied back with a colorful gypsy's scarf. A cascade of silver earrings followed the curves of her ears, and another hoop adorned her eyebrow. Today she was wearing a long flowing skirt with at least five animal print patterns on it and an equally unique tank top. She was easily the most mismatched person on campus, and by far the nuttiest person Clay knew.

"Soooo…Nick tells me you have some _boy problems!_ " She was also the loudest person he knew.

"Shh!" Clay exclaimed, looking around himself for eavesdroppers. Finding none, he turned back to Alyssa with his severest expression. "He told you that?!"

"Oh, he tells me everything," Alyssa winked at him.

_Hmph. Traitor. What happened to the Roommate Bond?_

"So," the girl went on, tossing her stringy brown hair behind her, "Tell Alyssa the Love Doctor what your problem is."

For the second time that weekend, Clay found himself explaining the intricacies of his love life (or lack thereof, in this case) to another person. It wasn't a position he often found himself in, but his discomfort was alleviated by Alyssa's presence. Though she was crazy in temperament, she had earned her nickname well.

Clay finished the story and watched Alyssa as she stared at the Auditorium with her fingers pressed contemplatively to her heavily painted lips.

"…Hm." she said at last. Clay waited impatiently but silently for her to say something more enlightening. He knew better than to rush her. Finally, she broke off her staring contest with the building in front of her and trained her grey and blue gaze on him.

"Well, I suppose the fact that you realized you messed up big time was what brought you to me. Therefore, we can skip the 'scolding' process and get right down to it."

Clay breathed out a sigh of relief. Alyssa's scolds were never to be taken lightly, and rarely could he get out of them without feeling about two inches tall.

"So. There are many things going on here, and only about half of them have to do with you, from what I can tell. You sure picked a difficult boy to pursue, I'll give you that."

Clay fidgeted uncomfortably. "So…got any great insights for me?"

"I have great insights for every occasion, you know that."

Clay rolled his eyes. "Right, right."

Alyssa ignored the slight and turned her gaze back to Northrop.

"All right, Clay baby, here's the scoop from the Love Doctor's perspective. Listen good 'cause you can only act on this information once, got it?"

At Clay's vigorous nod of approval, Alyssa explained.

"Let us psychoanalyze the boy from a few angles. Angle one: His general personality. We've already determined that he behaves in a standoffish manner towards you. You also told me that he usually sits by himself in class and doesn't talk much. Though this does indicate that he's introverted, it doesn't mean he's a loner. Therefore, I conclude that it's not people in general he's bothered by, it's just you."

Clay groaned. Alyssa rolled her eyes and flicked her Pixie Dust at him.

"Quiet, you. It's tough cookies from your present vantage point, but it means less of an obstacle later on, believe me. Now then, angle two: We will use what we know of his past to formulate an opinion on why he hates you. Though you have behaved arrogantly to and around him, you do that all the time and it usually doesn't bother most people. Therefore, the Love Doctor speculates that something in his past makes him instinctively avoid you. From what you've told me about his outbursts before class, I've decided that he probably had a boyfriend before that acted like you. It was obviously a painful relationship, and he's sworn to never let that happen to him again. He could just be afraid to talk to you. He's afraid of you. He's afraid he might fall for you."  
Clay stirred in his seat.

_-"You – You – You're just like Ethan!"_

Alyssa watched him like a hawk out of the corner of her eye as she speculated further.

"Your obviously jockish tendencies evidently annoy him. He is not a mainstream thinker; we can deduce this by his actions and by the aspects of his personality that do not apply to you."

"What?"

"He's a theater major, Clay, it's obvious. Who else would write plays before class when they could be sleeping instead?"

"Ah."

"Right. Now that you've cottoned on to the fact, we can use this information more wisely. Since he is an independent thinker as is indicated by his standoffish nature and his choice of major, we can safely determine that he will not be impressed by the repetition of your previous behaviors. Which means…" She lifted her eyebrows at Clay.

Clay was confused. "I have to…what?"  
Alyssa groaned in defeat.

"Clay, you have to _change_ your behavior towards him in order to impress him. I also think that not only will you have to change your behavior, you'll have to change everything else. Oh, don't look at me like that. I don't mean everything as in you need to quit soccer and take up chess. I mean that in order to impress him you need to not only start being nicer to him, but also to change the way you treat other people, the way you play your sport, the way you handle your life. Let's face it, Clay, you're a playboy who's going nowhere emotionally. Do you want it to stay that way? Then fine, get over this boy and move on with your life. No one will stop you. However, if you are serious about wanting to hook up with your dream man, methinks he won't be impressed by Clay the Playboy. I think maybe Clay the Boy would do better in this situation, instead."

Clay glowered at the grass. "You've wanted to say all that for a long time, haven't you?"

Alyssa laughed. "I admit it. The opportunity just never presented itself before now."

Clay gazed ahead. "So you're saying that I need to reevaluate how I treat people."

Alyssa looked at him owlishly.

"I think you might be surprised, Clay," she said gently, "On how popular you can _really_ be. It doesn't take a harsh hand to lead a horse, you know. You can be popular, talented, _and_ kind. _That_ would impress anyone, including your George."

Clay sat in silence before heaving a great sigh.  
"Alyssa, you are the Love Doctor indeed."

Alyssa flicked the Pixie Dust at him again.  
"No, silly. I am a psychology major. I just do the love business on the side."

She winked and looked at her watch, then yelped and bolted out of her seat.

"Gotta go, Clay baby. You just think about what I said and do what you will with it. I'm sure you'll make a good choice."

Clay waved as she disappeared around a building, scarves whipping in the wind after her. The bench was occupied for the rest of the afternoon as he thought.

Clay knew that Alyssa was right. She was always right when it came to human emotions, and everything that she'd said had made sense to him. Suddenly, a memory came to the soccer player.

The play that George had been writing had had two characters battling for dominance, and neither was giving in. That way, one of the characters was sure to get hurt. Maybe Alyssa was right. Maybe he needed a different tactic.

There was only one question left to answer:  
_Is it worth it?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts on Alyssa's advice? :) 
> 
> Shoutout to @/chezert for making the correct guess in the last chapter!
> 
> Clay is conflicted! George is happy! Wonder what will happen now...
> 
> I know the story is moving slowly... It's supposed to! Updates will be more consistent tho :]
> 
> Follow me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/OverTheJune)!


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